Hodge. Gog's bread, Diccon, ich came too late, was nothing there to get:
Gib (a foul fiend might on her light) licked the milk-pan so clean;
See, Diccon, 'twas not so well washed this seven year, as ich ween.
A pestilence light on all ill-luck, chad thought yet for all this
Of a morsel of bacon behind the door at worst should not miss:
But when ich sought a slip to cut, as ich was wont to do,
Gog's souls, Diccon, Gib our cat had eat the bacon too:
[Which bacon Diccon stole, as is declared before.
Diccon. Ill-luck, quod he? marry, swear it, Hodge, this day the truth tell,
Thou rose not on thy right side, or else blessed thee not well.